


l’amore è

by luce_incanto



Category: Eurovision Song Contest RPF, Festival di Sanremo RPF
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Songfic, and inspiring, come te is too beautiful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 22:39:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18508522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luce_incanto/pseuds/luce_incanto
Summary: on dawns, love and grand sense of all things





	l’amore è

**Author's Note:**

> i’ve been listening to Come te on repeat and this happened x)

It’s strange how your perception of things can change so suddenly and inevitably. It’s strange how some of those things can once and for all lose their trivial meaning and acquire a new one, private, the one that makes you smile absently, because they are no longer random. They are connected to each other with invisible silver strings, silver linings.

To each other, but most of all to that one person in the center of your new system of axis.

You look at the clouds far away behind the dirty glass of the window, you look at the paper airplane, sinking down on the fly and then getting higher, as the wind changes. You think it’s a bit like him.

It’s a sudden thought at first. But it grows on you.

xxx

Fabrizio never divided days and weeks into parts and pieces, never thought of them as mornings, evenings, twilights and sunsets. It’s all just one race without an end, a wheel, repeating itself forever, and he doesn’t know how to draw lines on it. To do that he’ll probably have to stop time, to pinpoint the moment right there and define those parts of the days left to him by changing light, finding a name for each degree of darkness. He never needed it. He liked the non-existent mornings, passing so quickly he couldn’t even grab a cup of bad tea before facing the busy day. He liked his days, full of work he enjoyed and sometimes hated, as in every passionate relationship. He liked how days seamlessly merged with evenings, how work slowly slipped into rest, how he could start calling colleges _friends_ when sky grew darker and bar doors opened. He liked the way nights came, obscuring everything, how fatigue of a long eventful day tasted on his tongue and there was nothing left to do except sleep or make love, if only it wasn’t for his sudden inspirations. And calls. Late calls, long calls, drawing closer to morning.

No, not morning. Dawn. Dawn is the only time he learnt to distinguish those days, the only one he wishes he could find a way to keep still, to keep from becoming one more tired morning without sleep or a drowsy afternoon, erasing all memories.

Dawns, unlike all other times of the day, are all theirs.

When Fabrizio thinks of Ermal, he thinks of those dawns.

A dawn in San Remo, pink and yellow, so cold that it freezes them both to the bones even through an open window, and then Ermal opens the door and walks out on the balcony, as if he doesn’t even notice the cold. For Ermal it’s like this, he’s always in his head, he can forget to eat or sleep for days, he can catch a cold and grow it into pneumonia, never noticing until it’s too late. Such things are inconsequential to him, too prosaic and distant, so he walks out barefooted and leans on the railing, watching the sun rise. Fabri watches him instead. For a couple of moments, he watches his curls, disheveled and tired, his spine, bent under the weight of all the accusations, fatigue and helplessness. Watches him sigh. Then it’s his turn to get up, to walk out like that, in a thin t-shirt, and Fabrizio really, really hopes that _he_ won’t catch cold simply because he can’t waste precious seconds to put on his boots. He breathes out and faces the frozen dawn outside for what it takes to firmly shake Ermal by the shoulders and lead him back into the room. To close the door, shaking from cold air, while Ermal looks at him, frowning, as if only now realizing that it’s winter and it snowed yesterday. He’s a pretty picture with his cheeks a bit flushed, but his eyes are too tired and too sad.

A dawn in Lisbon, on the contrary, is almost warm. Fabrizio still wears a warm jacket just in case and Ermal laughs at him, drinking from their second bottle of wine, not even bothering with glasses. Ermal’s mouth on the bottle, red and wet, is something that catches his attention, _always_ catches his attention, but he simply lets that thought go, listening to what Ermal has to say instead. At such times, when sky is so bright and fresh, he has a lot to say. His thoughts run freely, undisturbed, his tongue, usually so sharp, softened by tiredness. They don’t sleep at dawn – dawn is their time. Dawn is a moment of calmness, a moment of closeness, dawn is the time when Fabrizio, too, can say anything he wants. Except, maybe, one thing he still keeps close to his chest.

Summer dawns are pleasantly cold and sound like bird’s early chirping, like awakening cities. Those are veiled with sadness, because it’s too long from one dawn to another and it’s suddenly very clear that their time is over. That there are those dawns and not much more. That there’s a void that can’t be filled, can’t be satisfied, and they both feel distant and sorry, terribly sorry. Two bottles of wine turn into three, then four, and Ermal laughs, finally, because he cannot even get up without falling. He’s already fallen once, he says, when Fabri catches him at the last moment. He’s fallen so hard he doesn’t know how to get up anymore, he’s down and no one can help him.

It’s early sun, glistening on an empty bottle, it’s white light caught in Ermal’s curls, shining all over his face, erasing all shades and masks, making him younger and sadder. Fabrizio doesn’t know what to tell him. He has no promises, he’s not the one to give them freely and Ermal’s not the one to easily accept. He cannot lie when a ray of sunshine makes his face an open book, too. He cannot know the future and cannot predict what will become of them later, what will become of their time and their dawns. What he can do though, is help Ermal up.

He never thought he’d have the courage to kiss him first, to be the one who crosses that line once and for all, abandoning behind all the sweet tension and unsaid tenderness, making it, instead, explicit. Not so sweet anymore, because a mystery, unveiled, is always frightening. You never know how it will turn out in the end, you can only hope, and Fabrizio hopes, he has to hope, when he choses to be honest about one final thing he has yet to share with this dawn and with Ermal.

And so it happens. Dawns are never the same after that, never hesitant and timid. There’s a hand in his hand, a hand he can kiss finger by finger until the sun is up and they shared all the melancholic thoughts and feelings, all confessions and musings, all touches and caresses. Until people under the balcony start hurrying along their ways and Ermal has to hurry, too. To another city, to another day full of work and people he doesn’t care about as much. Dawns are never the same, but Fabri likes those ones better. They give him hope – he doesn’t exactly know what for, doesn’t know what’s waiting them behind closed doors of future years, but he feels like he can breathe after another one of those dawns. He feels like he can look out of the window next day, see the sky turning pink and think of Ermal and his smile, making sun seem less bright, of Ermal and his sweet words, murmured in a whisper, secretly tender, of Ermal and his eyes at those rare dawn moments when they are terribly honest and terribly tragic. He’s afraid, Fabrizio knows this and tries to make him believe, too. Make him hope. Gives him a taste of his own faith kiss by kiss, caress by caress, never knowing if it’d be enough.

We never know anything for sure.

Fabrizio thinks of dawns when he thinks of Ermal, and he thinks of love when he thinks of dawns. A simple connection made by his mind and it’s forever changed him, somehow, made him a different person. The one who breathes freezing air of February dawn and feels cold no longer.

There’s a grand sense in all of this, it sure feels like it when Fabri dreams of music, as melancholic and tired as those dawns, when he writes it down. It’s August, his album is due April and he doesn’t know if Ermal will still be around to listen to it, first, as promised. He doesn’t know, but he hopes as he expresses the melody of endless dawns together on the paper, turning it into a song. And when he buys two bottles of their favorite wine – for the next time.

**Author's Note:**

> there aren't a lot of songs that make me see pictures  
> this one did


End file.
